The Terrible Tale of the Missing Turkey
Tom Fogg
Returning up the house road one hazy afternoon I was curious about the little orchard walled in on the T junction. I’d only seen it as an olive grove but this day a clementine caught my eye. In we loped, to have a mooch about, off leash, before dinner time. We were all tired and floppy but I was now no longer aware of Raja. I’d noticed his instinct was up, as we approached the house road, but I hadn’t paid the attention due. I missed him, for I’d say no more than 17 seconds, which was all he needed.
Anyway, there I was muttering to myself while trying to peel an unripe clementine when I heard a commotion across the road. ‘Raja.’ I called. ‘Raja!’ Nothing.
At once, the commotion announced itself in my mind as ‘very upset fowl’ and a neurological microsecond later I found myself sprinting, with Chili in toe, shouting Έλα!! for my beautiful killer friend. I was bellowing his name in my deepest, angriest voice even while one of these quite ridiculous, exotic birds (it was enormous) flapped in hysterical protest into a tree above my head.
I swear, I thought of a childhood cartoon by Quentin Blake.
At the neighbours locked gate I spotted Raja. He was in the garden, beneath a tree more suited to first love, ravaging the neck of his fresh prey. Feathers littered the very air.
I yelled from the depths of Hell,
!! RAJA !!
!! Όχι !!
!! Έλα !!
….and come he did, slowly and in deep obeisance, while the blood and adrenaline surged through his exquisite brown frame and quivering to his paws with the thrill of pure mammalian violence.
I had aged considerably by the time he arrived at the gate. His mouth was a mess of stubborn feathers. He coughed and licked and spluttered to no avail, knowing he was in the most awful trouble with his all powerful leader.
I admit that I was experiencing a powerful cocktail of desperate emotions at this point. These included;
Rage, Shock, Horror, Deep Shame and Fear.
We went at once to the house where I left the hounds to immediately return to the scene of the crime.
‘Τι συνέβη?’
The turkey farmer waited at the gate. He seemed confused and cross. We attempted to communicate the events of the past three minutes.
and
‘που έχει?’
He said, again and again. I didn’t understand but described the story with internationally recognised gestures, feeling like Captain Haddock.
‘Kaput?’ he asked, drawing a knife across his throat.
‘No. Όχι. Not kaput. It flew away’ I flapped, in a direction vaguely to the north east.
‘που έχει?’ He asked again.
‘I don’t know what that means. I’m very sorry.’
We walked the walk of shame around this rather idyllic, feathery murder scene, with me practising one of most important words an Englishman needs abroad.
‘Συγνώμη!’
He was very cross but in a now private way that reminded me of displeasing a parent. He called his son and we went on in silence to the turkey enclosure. His son appeared, a gentle, concerned young man, who mediated between the shamed and the wronged.
I was completely devastated, standing there, dressed inexplicably, in my December wardrobe of blue shorts, blue T and near death trainers. I explained that I was very sorry, that it was entirely my responsibility and would of course pay for any damage. The son was gracious but they wanted to know where the ravaged bird had gone. So we looked, forlornly until sunset.
I had to explain all this to my hosts, on their long awaited holiday. I had to pay for the bird. I asked the son what his father liked to drink, as this was Christmas week and likely some unknowing islander would no longer be eating turkey for Christmas lunch.
The next day I bought the father a bottle of whisky and gave him a large banknote. The whiskey was a surprise, but he accepted both it and my apologies and we parted, shaking hands. My kind hosts too, were phlegmatic but agreements regarding Raja’s future stewardship were quickly created.
Bird never found. Presumed dead.
On my last day with them I cried a lot. They came to me in turn then, and through the rest of the day. Our last walk was an epic ramble around Lageri. I told them both how I appreciated them. Dear friends.
As we approached home I saw some Joe Frazier in Chili, and an unmistakable Fred Astaire in Raja.
On our last night I realised that Chili has eyebrows like Nikita Khrushchev, and that I am completely in love with Raja.
There are ‘lasts’ all through life. Why are those that involve animals we love so very, very painful?


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